


ain't no angels gonna greet me

by vulpesvortex



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, Young Avengers (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Blackmail, Canon-Typical Violence, Lavender Scare, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Period-Typical Homophobia, Private Investigators, Queer History, Slurs, Suicidal Ideation, no powers, queer community
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 10:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10410348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulpesvortex/pseuds/vulpesvortex
Summary: Living in Greenwich Village after the war, Clint and Kate witness the destructive effects of the Lavender Scare firsthand. Amidst police raids and rampant suspicion, they do their best to protect their community, until one day Bruce Banner shows up on the doorstep of their detective agency, bringing trouble of a whole other magnitude.(A Hulkeye noir AU)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has a [Tumblr graphic](https://voxwrites.tumblr.com/post/158742698844/aint-no-angels-gonna-greet-me-clintbruce) you can reblog if you like.

“Someone in to see you.”  
  
Clint looked up from the article he was scanning in the New York Times as he walked to see Kate standing in front of his office door, arms crossed. She cast a look over his unshaven cheeks, the coffee stain on his jacket cuff from where he’d tipped over his cup at the automat, the undoubted dark circles under his eyes that probably told her all too clearly where he’d been spending his night. She sighed.  
  
“A client?” Clint inquired. They didn’t usually have those lining up around the block to see him, especially not first thing in the morning.  
  
“Looks like,” she said.  
  
“You put him in my office?”  
  
“Yeah,” Kate glanced at her watch. “‘Bout ten minutes ago. Seemed pretty spooked but he hasn’t bolted yet.”    
  
He regretted not having another coffee at breakfast. He hadn’t expected to have actual work to do at the office. Then again, if he’d come in even later he’d probably have lost the work. “So, what’s it look like?”  
  
“Neat, polite. Decent suit on him.”  
  
“Corporate?” Clint raked a hand through his hair to try and smooth it back. Probably wasn’t any use, not with the rest of him in the state it was, but hey.  
  
“Didn’t seem the type. Civil service, maybe.”    
  
Clint stripped off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves to hide the coffee stain, ignoring the look Kate gave him.  
  
She stepped closer and rubbed away a bit of egg from the corner of his mouth with her thumb and took his jacket. “Maybe if you wanna make a good impression on your clients, don’t show up looking like you found breakfast in a bin behind the Child's.”  
  
“Thanks, I’ll take that under advisement.” He could see the outline of a man through the frosted glass of his office door. Clint turned back, hand on the doorknob. “Hey, why didn’t you talk to him?”  
  
“I got other stuff on my plate from last night.” She waved a hand. “Go on, I’ll tell you later.”  
  
“Alright.”

 

* * *

  
  
The man in his office, who had been poking curiously at the filing cabinets, jumped a little when Clint came in.  
  
“Hi. Sorry, did I startle you?” Clint walked over to his desk, chucking down his coat and the paper, and waved a hand at the other chair. “Please sit.”    
  
“Are you the detective?” the man asked, taking a seat hesitantly. He had dark curls that might once have been combed back neatly but had been much disturbed by a worrying hand, and had on a heavy tweed suit that looked to be a little warmer than the current weather really warranted. There was the vague memory of a tan on his skin, as if he had seen a lot of sun but not recently.  
  
“One of them, yeah.” Clint leaned over the desk to offer his hand. “Clint Barton, at your service.”  
  
“Bruce Banner,” the man took his hand, and Clint noted the way his eyes lingered briefly on Clint’s exposed forearm before skittering away _._ “The other- the lady in the purple dress said I should see you.”  
  
_I’ll bet she did_ _,_ Clint thought, suppressing a smirk.

  
“Yeah, she’s got stuff going on. I’ll be taking your case. That is, I assume you have one. Don’t seem like a social call, seeing as we haven’t met before.”  
  
“Yes. That is, yes, I have a...problem. A friend suggested you might be able to help.”  
  
Clint nodded supportively when Banner hesitated, which didn’t help a whole lot since Banner was looking down at his knees.  
  
“It might help if you tell me what the problem is, Mr. Banner.”  
  
“Doctor.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“It’s Dr. Banner.”  
  
“Alright, Doc.”  
  
Banner nodded down at his shoes, mouth twisted in a wry line.  
  
Well, this wasn’t getting them anywhere.  
  
“You want coffee? I want coffee. Or maybe you need something stronger, huh? I got some real Russian vodka, if you wanna. Hang on-” Clint pulled open the left drawer on his desk, where, sure enough, a bottle of Nat’s terrible Russian vodka rolled to meet him. The sharp liquor smell that wafted up turned his stomach in memory of the night before.  
  
“No. No, thanks.” Looked like the smell had turned Dr. Banner a little green himself.  
  
“Well, I’m gonna make some coffee, and when I get back maybe you can tell me what’s troubling you, yeah?”  
  
“I-.” Bruce made an aborted movement in the chair, as if he wanted to get up but stopped himself before the impulse could fully form. “Do you have any tea?” he asked hopefully, after another moment.  
  
“Yeah, sure. I’m sure we got some tea hanging round here somewhere, hang on.” Clint banged around the cupboards in the small kitchenette in the back of his and Kate’s shared offices until he unearthed a box of Earl Grey from behind a pack of sugar and a half-empty bottle of whisky. “Earl Grey alright?”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
He prepared the tea in silence, letting the coffee steep in the pot while he pottered around. He watched Banner fidget in his chair from the corner of his eye, tracking the aborted nervous movements of his hands in his lap, the strange aura of deliberateness that saturated his movements, like a thin veneer of control held tightly around him. The coffee machine sputtered and hissed at him, drawing his attention back to it.  
  
“Here you go,” he handed Banner the teacup when it was done and sat down on the edge of the desk with his own mug of coffee. “Shit, you take anything in that? We got sugar-”  
  
“No, this is alright, thank you.” Banner sipped the tea, though Clint could’ve told him it was still much too hot to drink being just fresh out of the kettle, but Banner didn’t seem to notice. Clint let him fuss over the tea for a moment until he seemed more settled.  
  
“So,” he prompted. “Why do you need my help, doc?”  
  
Banner winced. “It’s delicate.”  
  
“People end up here, it usually is. We’re the soul of discretion, me ‘n Kate. It’s sort of our selling point. And if it’s trouble with the law…” Clint trailed off, trying to gauge Banner’s reaction, “...we ain’t of the judgmental disposition, neither. I can color outside of the lines if I have to.”    
  
“You’re willing to break the law for a case?”  
  
“I’m pretty bendy,” Clint winked. “And the law ain’t always on the right side, if you ask me.”  
  
Bruce took a deep breath, putting down the cup carefully on the desk. “I’m a physicist for the Department of Defense. Someone is trying to steal my research.”  
  
“They break into your lab?”  
  
“Not yet. They want me to give it to them. I’m not going to.”  
  
“So, what do they have on you?” Clint softened his voice. He sorta wanted to reach out to Banner, to let him know he was safe here, but he was sitting too far away. “Letters, pictures, testimony, army discharge?”  
  
Banner’s head shot up.  
  
“You’re being blackmailed, right? That’s why you’re here chattin’ to me instead of one ‘a your bosses at the DOD.”  
  
“I-yes. Of course.” Banner grabbed the teacup back off the desk, clenching it tight between his hands. “Pictures. I don’t know if they have anything else.”  
  
“Alright, so, that’s bad, but not unsalvageable. You know who has them?”  
  
“You’re not going to ask what’s on them?”  
  
“I know what’s on ‘em.” This time Clint really did lean forward and pat Bruce’s hand. “It’s not a problem.”

 

* * *

  
  
They headed out to Bruce’s apartment, as he hadn’t dared carry the blackmail letter on his person. “I read about the raid last night. It didn’t seem safe.”  
  
“Good call.” Clint nodded, kicking some trash down the curb. “It’s election season. They’ve been picking us up all over the Village. If anyone caught you with pictures, I don’t like to think what would happen.”  
  
Bruce didn’t say anything more until they reached his apartment, a well-appointed one-bedroom in Central Park West, on the other side of Times Square from the Village. Clint wasn’t entirely surprised to note the piece of sellotape across the door, though he couldn’t tell if it was a habitual precaution or Bruce’d been spooked but good by the letter. He decided not to comment on it.  
  
“Swanky digs, Doc!” Clint exclaimed, bumping through the door. He supposed it wasn’t quite the Ritz, but having grown used to the tenements and lodging houses of the Village, the apartment looked spacious to Clint, and the presence of a personal kitchen and separate bedroom seemed downright luxurious.  
  
“It’s not much to look at-”  
  
“Must be nice, raking in the dough from Uncle Sam,” Clint grinned. He suppressed a small pang of bitterness looking around the apartment, easily three times the size of his own lodgings and a hell of a lot cleaner. There were downsides too though, Clint thought, taking in the neat, lonely-looking bed visible through a doorway: a place like this usually came with nosy neighbours. “Now we gotta save your job for sure.”  
  
“There’s also the small matter of national security,” Bruce said drily.  
  
Bruce dug out the blackmail letter from a vent behind the bed. Enclosed with the typewritten note were grainy copies of the photographs that confirmed Clint’s suspicions. They were nothing extravagant, but then they didn’t need to be to be damning. An anonymous accusation was enough to do for some people: Clint’s own blue discharge had come on the word of a man he barely knew. Proof was an empty word these days, but it appeared they needed a little more of it to unseat someone of Bruce’s standing with the government.  
  
“They want to meet tomorrow,” Clint said after he’d skimmed the note.  
  
“Yeah. I don’t really know the place.” Bruce sighed. “Still, if it was just money…”  
  
Clint hummed absently, scanning the letter several times. “I recognize some of this handiwork. The paper, the drop site. It’s weird, though. Shaw’s never demanded anything but money before.” Clint squinted at the typeface of the letter, the smudged E that matched several other letters he’d seen with similar clients. “I’m assuming your work’s classified. Is there any reason they should know what to ask for?”  
  
Bruce’s face grew even stormier. “No, they shouldn’t. The project is pretty much on lockdown, nothing leaves the lab. They must have someone on the inside.”  
  
“Or they were hired.” Clint pocketed the letter and photographs. “I’ll hang on to these for now. If someone’s trying to set you up, they might get impatient and it’ll be better if you aren’t found with them.”  
  
Bruce looked a little green at the prospect of giving anyone access to the pictures, but he didn’t speak up. “What if someone finds _you_ with them?”  
  
Clint snorted dismissively. He’d been picked up for worse. With a bit of luck, he could pass himself off as the blackmailer. Barely worth a tap on the fingers, extorting a fairy.  
  
They discussed plans for the next day over dinner. Bruce made something called a “curry”, which Clint had never had but Bruce had apparently picked up during his time in India during the war. He didn’t mention what he’d been doing there, but Clint took it as a fair bet that it had to do with science, not shooting. He mentally swatted away his own memories of the war, which was becoming easier when they came up in casual conversation, but were still hard to fight off at night or during trouble - sharp flashes of blood and death through the scope of a rifle, the mud and wet of the forests and fields they’d fought in like a physical sensation on his skin.  
  
The evening passed quietly, Clint regaling Bruce with tales of the Village in better times, before the cops had started cracking down on them almost weekly, and Clint’s favorite bars and coffee houses had disappeared one by one until there were none left, only pale imitations that never lasted long against the strict liquor and public decency laws. But Bruce had clearly avoided the Village for its reputation, so Clint had much to tell. He felt himself warmed as he spoke of his friends, and how he and Kate had built their lives together, both spat out – Clint by the army, Kate her rich family - after they’d lost their usefulness as the war ended and the eyes turned on their predilictions were no longer blind. Bruce returned the favor by speaking of India eagerly, but remained mum on New York though he had lived here since Japan’s surrrender, for several years now. Clint got the sense that apart from work – which was off-limits – there was not much to tell.  
  
“I’ll make the necessary arrangements for tonight,” Clint said, putting his hat back on as he lingered in the doorway the next morning. “You gonna be okay holding up your end?”  
  
“I should be able to throw something together at work.”  
  
“Without raising suspicion?”  
  
Bruce squared his jaw. “We’ll see.”  
  
“Alright, be safe.” Clint took the liberty of patting Bruce’s cheek.” We’re gonna get you out of this fix.”

 

* * *

  
  
Clint picked up Bruce outside his work building after his shift. Bruce showed him the fake reports in his briefcase as they took the metro back to the Village to where they were supposed to meet. The fact that they’d chosen to set the meet there just confirmed Clint’s suspicions about who they were dealing with. His earlier probing had come up empty with regards to where the assholes were holed up, so Kate was set to tail them this time. Clint checked his gun in its holster under his jacket, throwing Bruce a wry look when he saw him looking.  
  
“It’s not my preferred weapon but it’ll do.”  
  
“Let’s hope we don’t need it.”  
  
“No stomach for violence?” Clint couldn’t help but wonder again what Bruce was cooking up for the military. It had to be a weapon, didn’t it? “And yet you work for the DOD.”  
  
Bruce didn’t answer.

 

* * *

  
  
The meeting did not go well.  
  
“What’d you say you were working on again?” Clint yelled from behind the Ford he was using for cover. Next to him, Bruce was taking deep, even breaths that didn’t seem to be doing too swell a job of calming him down. Shots rang out around them. Clint had known when he took Bruce’s case that it meant trouble, but he didn’t expect it to find them this quickly.  
  
“I didn’t.” Bruce had one hand tangled in Clint’s shirt cuff, hanging on for dear life. As if Clint was going to make a break for it on his own. “It’s classified.”  
  
“Good to know I’m dying for a good cause,” Clint grumbled, thinking bitterly of some of the more gruesome state secrets he’d witnessed during the war. “This science project better be fucking worth it.”  
  
Another shot shattered the car mirror above Clint’s head with a sharp burst of ringing glass. “I can’t believe you punched the guy. He could’ve shot you!”  
  
“I wasn’t thinking! I didn’t mean for you to get caught up in this-” Bruce started, but Clint cut that train off before it could leave the station.  
  
“Hey, save it, doc, it’s my job. I’ve been in tighter spots than this.” He pried his shirt from Bruce’s desperate grasp and wrapped his hand around the doctor’s. He squeezed it gently.  “And I’m gonna get you out of here, I promise.”  
  
There was the telltale click of a hammer hitting an empty chamber, audible as the gunfire died off. Thanking his lucky stars, Clint clasped his gun firmly, took a deep breath, and fired three shots over the top of the bullet-riddled Ford. One of their pursuers went down clutching his chest while the other dived for cover behind a trashcan and tried frantically to reload.  
  
Clint pulled Bruce up roughly by his hand, “Come on! Come on!” and dragged him into the dark maze of alleyways.

 

* * *

  
  
“Nat! Nat! Nat!” Clint was still holding the doctor’s hand when he burst into the Bloody Tsar. Several, though nowhere near all, of the patrons looked up, most of them too inured to the kind of trouble the Tsar attracted to be distracted from their drinks by the commotion.  
  
Nat was drying a tumbler behind the bar. She abandoned the glass and an apparent argument with one of the barflies over a shot of vodka in favor of meeting them at the corner of the bar, eyebrows raised in question.  
  
“You gotta hide us,” Clint hissed urgently, motioning for the keys to the store room Natasha kept on her belt.  
  
“I don’t have to do shit,” she said icily, unimpressed. “Who’ve you got on your tail now? And who the fuck is this?”  
  
“Bruce is a friend,” Clint decided to forgo sharing that Bruce was, by all appearances, a top-secret government scientist, as the reds had neither love nor time for the government, “and funnily enough I didn’t have time to get their names while they were shooting at us!”  
  
Natasha rolled her eyes, but she was shoving them in the direction of the store room and handing Clint the keys. “Alright, alright.” She shoved him through the door, Bruce in front of him. “You know what to do.”  
  
“Thanks, Nat.”  
  
“You are more trouble than you’re worth, I hope you know that.”  
  
“Oh, I know.”

 

* * *

  
  
Clint wasn’t worried about the other patrons. Nevermind that everyone had seen him and Bruce being shuffled off into the back, there wasn’t a soul in the Tsar that would speak to the pigs, and if Nat was on his side, they would all know better than to cough up anything to anyone else. The Widow’s sting was lethal and notorious.  
  
The smuggle space behind the double wall at the back of the storeroom wasn’t exactly spacious, and that _did_ worry him. Bruce was pressed all along his side, breathing quietly against his ear and neck. His curls fell into his face, casting shadows in the flickering light of Clint’s zippo. His eyelashes seemed very long where they lay against his cheeks.  
  
Clint swallowed.  
  
The lashes fluttered, Bruce’s lids lifting to turn heavy eyes on him. “Do you think they followed us?”  
  
There was a softness to Bruce’s expressions that the doctor seemed unable to shake, no matter how agitated he became. Clint couldn’t pinpoint its origin exactly - it might have been the perpetual suggestion of tiredness around his eyes, or the gentle squarish curve of the brows above them, or the incremental dip in his plump bottom lip, the hint of looseness there.  
  
Clint shook his head to dispel his wayward musings. Now really was not the time. “What?”  
  
“Did they follow us?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Clint tried to reassure Bruce, whose rapid breathing was moving his ribs distractingly against Clint’s chest. “If they come in, no one will give us up. And they can search the bar all they like, they’ll never find us in here.”  
  
“But what if-”  
  
They cut off abruptly at the sound of approaching footsteps, flicking shut the lighter and holding their breaths. They waited together in the dark, tense and terrified despite Clint’s assurances as men barged into the storeroom and started knocking things over. After a time, the rough muffled voices and agitated search noises retreated with an air of defeat.  
  
After another seemingly interminable stretch of minutes, a new set of footsteps approached, heading straight for them, and Clint relaxed.  
  
Natasha pulled away the fake panel. “So, you ready to tell me what that was all about?”  
  
Clint slipped past her. “You mind if I use your telephone? I gotta call Mrs. Hawkeye,” he said, already hopping over the bar to get to the wall phone Natasha kept there.  
  
Natasha waved him off, barely paying attention when Clint dropped a few coins into the machine and started cussing. Instead she regarded Bruce with clever, wary eyes.  
  
“So, you’re Clint’s new charity case, huh?”  
  
Bruce bristled. “It’s not charity. I fully intend to reimburse Mr. Barton for his services.”  
  
“We never did discuss my rate,” Clint supplied cheekily, the phone held awkwardly between his ear and shoulder, scrunching up his face when that prompted an outraged reply from the other end of the line. “Yes, I’m aware of that, Kate.”  
  
Natasha rolled her eyes. Obviously, she had more than a passing familiarity with the Hawkeyes. She pushed a shot of vodka at Bruce across the sticky table. “For your nerves.”  
  
“I don’t drink.”  
  
The Russian looked surprised for the first time since Bruce had met her, bursting into her bar with armed gunmen on their tail. “My condolences,” she said, knocking back the shot herself.

 

* * *

  
  
“Hey, you alright?” Kate sighed wearily over the line.    
  
“Yeah. No extra holes in me,” Clint joked. “Everything silk on your end?”  
  
“I’ve got an address for our den of iniquity. ”  
  
“Sweet. Knew I could count on you, darlin’.” Clint carefully noted down the address Kate gave him. “Is that near that barbershop with the yellow lights outside?”  
  
“Yeah, right across.” Kate hummed. “There’s a front shop downstairs, looked busy. Apartments above. It’s going to be hard to break in.”  
  
“Damn.” Clint rubbed his face, tired, the adrenaline winding down and leaving him wrung out. “We’ll figure something out. How’s _your_ thing?”  
  
“My _thing_?”  
  
Clint spun a hand impatiently. “Yesterday morning, you said you had a thing. ‘S why you dropped Bruce in my lap, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, we picked up a couple of runaways on their first night out. Fresh as rosewater, these two. We went boy-girl, boy-girl down the street, showed them how it’s done to get by the police. Gave them Steve’s card in case they got in trouble. I’m trying to find a place to put them up.”

Clint processed that. He wasn’t opposed to playing sensei to newcomers, especially if they were teenagers – far be it from him to hand the NYPD any more of their own – but given the current circumstances he wasn’t too keen on strangers. “Wait, you weren’t at the Elephant last night, were you?”  
  
“No, we were on our way back from that beer dive America loves, with the pool tables. We were just passing.”  
  
“Good. Listen, you girls be careful, alright? I don’t know if these creeps can track us to the office, so maybe clear out until we know they’re not coming to shoot up the place. I’m staying with Bruce until this blows over. They know where _he_ lives, obviously.”  
  
“I’ll stay with America,” Kate said. “Thanks for the heads up.”  
  
“Of course, can’t let my old lady get capped in the back of the head. The business would go belly-up within a week.”  
  
“It’s true, you’re hopeless without me. You weren’t even gonna ask him to pay, were you?”  
  
“Maybe I was thinking about exploring alternative methods of payment,” Clint leered, for no one’s benefit really, since Kate couldn’t see him and neither Nat nor Bruce were looking his way. “But I’m serious, if anything happened to you I would launch a very serious investigation into Nat’s vodka stash.”  
  
“I know,” Kate said. “Be careful.” ~~  
~~

 

* * *

  
  
Clint came back to the table, pulling out the chair next to Bruce and plopping down. “Mrs. Hawkeye wants me to tell you that if you stiff us you are in a world of hurt.”  
  
“I _will_ pay you,” Bruce assured him, looking affronted at the implication.   
  
“It’s alright, I saw your place, I know you’re good for it,” Clint shrugged, then grinned. “You got a good deal, she’s already gonna kick my ass for not discussing payment beforehand.”  
  
“Why didn’t you?”  
  
“You need helpin’. Me and Kate, we’re in the business of helping people. She just likes to make sure we can keep the lights on.” He tapped Bruce on the shoulder. “C’mon, let’s head out, I’m starving.” He gave Natasha a quick, distracted kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the save, Tsarina.”  
  
“You still haven’t told me what you’ve gotten yourself into.”  
  
“Bruce didn’t tell you?”  
  
“Your client is remarkably tight-lipped.” She said it like it was a virtue, albeit one she was personally offended by for standing up to her questioning.  
  
“Blackmail,” Clint grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, spinning on his heel. “Very serious blackmail about a, uh, lifestyle dispute.”  
  
“He looks like he can pay,” Natasha pointed out.  
  
“They don’t want money.” He dragged Bruce to the door. “Let me know if you hear anything, yeah? It’s the same assholes tried to have a go at Buck.”

 

* * *

  
  
Back at the apartment, Clint flopped back against the divan in Bruce’s living room. “I’m gonna stay with you until this blows over, alright? I don’t want any of ‘em getting trigger happy after our disagreement.”  
  
Bruce let out a miserable noise, putting his head in his hands, but Clint was going to assume that was more in reference to the botched ransom meet than Clint’s continued presence.  
  
“Hey,” he grabbed Bruce’s shoulder and waited for his eyes to snap to his. “They don’t want to expose you, they want your research. They’ll contact us again.”  
  
Bruce nodded, swallowing. “So what do we do?”  
  
They played cards.  
  
The blackmailers called a few hours later, as Clint had suspected they would. At least Bruce had a private line, so he didn’t have to worry about any of the neighbours listening in, though there was still the operator to worry about. Clint grabbed the phone before it could wake Bruce, who had fallen asleep on the couch close enough that Clint could brush his fingers through his hair. It was soft and curled a little, and Bruce’s brow unknotted a little bit every time he ran his fingers through it.  
  
There were more than a few ruffled feathers to soothe, but in the end he managed it, and they reset the meeting for the next day. He even managed to buy a few more days with some yarn about lab-security and how Bruce wouldn’t be able to smuggle out all they were asking for at once. If he got caught, they wouldn’t see so much as a blotch sheet, yadda yadda. At least, because of the altercation, they hadn’t had to hand over Bruce’s faked report yet, so they could hand that over as a sort of down-payment tomorrow.  
  
He didn’t think they’d try to come after Bruce now, but still, there was a long night ahead. He settled himself in the window, pistol across his lap, and listened for trouble.

 

* * *

  
  
  
“So,” Kate hopped onto the pool table, ignoring the narrow-eyed look America gave her as she jarred the table, “fancy getting into some trouble with me?”  
  
America glanced along the cue, lining up her shot, and sank it. “You’re already trouble. You’re not dressed for this side of town, Princess.” America ran a finger down the open back of Kate’s dress, eliciting a pleased shiver.  
  
“Where’s the fun in life if you can’t sparkle a little?” Kate shrugged, casting a sly smile at America over her shoulder. Diamonds twinkled at her ears and neck.  
  
“You’re going to get mugged.”  
  
“And you’re going to get arrested wearing those slacks and tie.” Kate trailed a teasing finger along the line of America’s shoulders, covered in a crisp white men’s dress shirt. “I guess we all like to live dangerously now and then.”  
  
America rolled her eyes. “So where’s this trouble you’re looking for?”  
  
“I don’t know, we gotta find it first,” Kate said coyly.  
  
America sunk another shot. “Get to the point.”  
  
“I assume you’ve heard about the people getting blackmailed.”  
  
America’s attention finally snapped from the pool game to Kate. “I have.”  
  
“How would you feel about taking those creeps down?”  
  
America set aside the pool cue and knocked back her beer. “You’re on, Princess.”

 

* * *

  
  
Clint met Kate at his apartment after she and America had gone to see Shaw. He took the opportunity to pack a bag and change out of his filthy clothes, though the state of his wardrobe altogether left something to be desired.  
  
“He agree to see you?”  
  
Kate sat perched on the desk near his bed, the top of her head almost brushing the slanted roof of the apartment. She swung her legs and smiled. “Yeah, he was quite eager to help some fine ladies such as ourselves have some fun. I wore my best earrings.”  
  
“Good, that’s good.”  
  
Clint held up three crumpled ties, trying to decide which was the least offensive to the eye. His second hat was crumpled and dented too, and he had maybe two suits that weren’t in urgent need of laundering. He’d had time nor money lately, or, if he was honest with himself, inclination. Half the days he pretty much lived at the office, anyway. He couldn’t even remember if he’d been home the night before he took this case. There were some vague memories of wandering the dark streets with unsteady feet, eventually ending up at the automat as the sun started to rise above the city. With all that’d happened since, it felt like he hadn’t been home in a week.  
  
Kate quietly toed up beside him, taking one of the ties, straightening it, and folding it into his bag, throwing the others onto the bed. She took his hand, which he noticed now was shaking a little.  
  
“Hey,” she pressed his hand, “you okay?”  
  
Clint rubbed at his eyes, suddenly finding a lump in his throat. “Yeah, Katie, yeah. I just. I just wanna get these guys, you know?”  
  
 “Oh, Clint.” Her delicate white hand let go of his blunter, darker one, and she went onto her toes, her arms winding themselves around his neck in a strong hug. She pressed a kiss to his forehead before she pulled away. “Be careful, please.”  
  
Clint got a feeling she wasn’t talking about the armed thugs. He didn’t know what to say.  
  
As Kate was leaving, she turned back to him in the doorway. She was beautiful in her long silk gown and diamonds, limned by the light from the spotty lamp in the hallway, incongruous against the sleazy background, and his heart was full for a moment with how much he loved her. She cast a look around the room – Clint thought she was going to say something about the state of it, and flushed a little, but instead her face brightened. “Hey, since you’re not using it now, can I put Billy and Teddy here for a while?”  
  
It took Clint a moment to remember Kate’s two runaways existed. He felt thin, full of emotion, not just for Kate, but for all of them, his neighborhood, his friends, the kids running here from one-horse towns all over America. And Bruce, crushed small under the prejudice that beat at them all.  
  
He cast his own look around the room, noticing for the first time all the things Kate must be seeing. It didn’t look any better to his own eyes, but he was used to it. Most days, he barely noticed. He twitched the corner of the bedsheets out of disarray a little self-consciously before grabbing his bag and walking to meet her at the door. “Sure, whatever you want. Uh. There’s no food in the icebox.” He rubbed his neck. “But you’ll look after them just fine, I’m sure.”  
  
Kate gave him a small smile. “Thanks. Hey, maybe they can be like our Baker Street boys! The Irregulars!”   
  
“Sure, Katie,” Clint offered distractedly as he locked the door. His mind had already hopped the Metro and was half-way back to Bruce’s apartment. Kate noticed immediately and rolled her eyes at him. “Go on, then! You’re like a heartsick pup, I swear.”  
  
Clint’s ears stayed hot all the way back to Bruce’s door.

 

* * *

  
  
“Hey, Kate’s meeting with Shaw on Saturday-"  
  
Clint stopped dead in his tracks. Bruce was at the counter, slicing paprikas with a large kitchen knife. Or at least, he had been. He appeared to have paused in the middle. The unsliced half of the paprika lay loosely held against the cutting board by Bruce’s graceful fingers. In the moment before Bruce looked up at his energetic entrance into the room, Clint caught the speculative way Bruce had been regarding the sharp edge of the knife. The look on his face made Clint’s stomach drop out harshly, the slews of familiar news reports that never got any easier to read crowding for attention in his memory, and a sour taste rose in the back of his mouth.  
  
It was always like this, after the raids, the arrests. And if the papers published names, all bets were off, and they’d be reading for weeks about bodies washing up on the riverbank and bodies found hanging in lonely apartments. It made him sick, the whole ordeal made him sick. To be exposed was to lose everything: family, friends, job, house, one list of names would see to it all. Shame had a vicious bite, ripping into lives like a hungry wolf, and many lost hope.  
  
Clint couldn’t even blame them. It was hard living on the other side of scandal and you were relegated there for life. With his history in the circus, he’d never had much experience on the right side of society, so living on the margins like he did here in New York didn’t sting so much, not anymore. With his record - a blue discharge and several arrests - petty thieving, first, from before the war, and then the trumped up bullshit that came with living how he did, where he did – he’d known he’d never have a real career. But others, like Bruce, had built something from their lives, and having it yanked away by a single indiscretion was one of the biggest kicks in the teeth Clint could imagine.  
  
And here was Bruce, looking at the kitchen knife like it might be salvation. He swallowed against the bile in his throat.  
  
“Bruce.” Clint stepped warily into the kitchen, the little kitchenette with its yellow cabinets and faux-marble countertops that really was quite sad for a man of Bruce’s means for all that it was a palace compared to Clint’s digs.  
  
Bruce tried to cover, slicing back into the paprika, tapping the knife against the cutting board to drop the cuttings off the blade. “Hey, what did you find out?” he said casually, his voice very slightly off.  
  
 “Kate and America are going to draw them out. I’m going to break in.” Clint put his hand on Bruce’s, gently prying it off the knife. The blade thumped softly against the cutting board and Clint felt Bruce’s fingers flinch under his. “It’s going to be alright.”  
  
Bruce looked at him for a long moment, a subtle defiance written in the angles of his features. He knew Clint had seen him and he wasn’t going to apologize or, it appeared, make excuses. “I’m sure,” he said eventually, in a way that made it clear he was keeping his own council about that.  
  
“Bruce, it will be alright soon, I promise. I’m going to break in, I’m going to get those pictures, I’ll burn the place down if I have to, but you gotta let me fix this. You gotta give me the time to do it.”  
  
“I know,” Bruce said, like he meant it this time. Clint sort of expected him to sag a little, to give, but instead he seemed more determined than ever. “I know you’re going to do what you can to help me. You have a good heart like that,” he gave Clint a soft smile, chin briefly tucking against his chest before he resumed his straight-backed posture, “but if it’s not enough, if-…I can’t give them what they want. I will not give those designs to them or anyone else that could do damage with it, I will not.”  
  
“I know you wouldn’t.”  
  
“So…” Bruce spun his hand in the air, shrugging.  
  
“Jesus, that doesn’t mean it’s time to punch your own ticket-“  
  
Bruce cut him a scathing look. “You don’t know what it would mean, for me, for this to get out.”  
  
“Like hell I don’t!” Clint exploded. “You think I live like this because I want to? You think this is the first time I’ve seen someone put a timer on a friend’s life like this? Every time they raid us, every time an undercover bait fairy pulls in an arrest, every time they beat my neighbors in the street for walkin’ home together I get a front row seat to this shit show!”  
  
“That’s not what I meant!” Bruce yelled and kicked the cupboard between them hard enough to dent it. Clint jumped back in shock. “You don’t get it! You don’t know!” The cupboard banged again loudly, and Bruce seemed to suddenly catch himself, gasping in a deep breath, shoulders shaking. His knuckles turned white on the edge of the counter as he wrestled control back over his emotions. “It’s not just the exposure.”  
  
Clint dropped his voice. He grabbed Bruce’s hand again, wrapping his fingers securely around the other man’s. “Then what is it?”  
  
“I-.” Bruce struggled. He cast a look at Clint’s hand on his. At the window. At the cutting board with the partially sliced paprika on it. Finally, he deflated, the rigid line of his spine bending as he sagged against the cupboard. He put his hands on his face, one still holding Clint’s. “I’m not right, there’s something not right with me. You saw, when I fought that guy, I- just sort of go away, and I hurt people. I can control it, most of the time. But not always.”  
  
“That guy was holding a gun to your head. I’d say you were within your rights to clock him,” Clint tried to say, reasonably. He _had_ noticed the tight rein Bruce kept on himself, and the change that came over him when that control had slipped at the ransom meeting. The look on Bruce’s face had made his blood run cold, not just the rage but the animal fear that seemed to fuel it. It reminded him of some of the men he’d known in the war, the ones that weren’t made for it, that would walk onto the line without cover and rattle off a machine gun until the belt ran out, eyes blank, nobody home upstairs. It was the only way their body could survive the violence – senselessly. He hadn’t known Bruce for more than a few days, but he would bet dollars to donuts the man had only ever attacked people who threatened him. Clint didn’t want to think what kind of situation could foster a defense mechanism like that. Bruce hadn’t fought in the war.  
  
Bruce waved him off. “That’s not what matters. They’ll use this to put me away somewhere. They’ll say I’m...sick. They did it before.” He curled deeper into himself. “I won’t go back there.”  
  
“Bruce, look at me.” Clint cradled Bruce’s face, finding Bruce’s cheeks wet under his fingertips. “I won’t let them take you. I promise, on my life, you’re not going anywhere.”  
  
“I’m not,” Bruce agreed, in a tone that made Clint want to hide every knife and fork in this kitchen.  
  
He held him tighter. “We’re going to fix this.”  
  
“They’ll say it’s for my own good. That I’m wrong. It’ll be proof, and some doctor will sign off on it, and I’ll be quietly put behind a white wall like I was never there at all.”  
  
That was it.  
  
Clint crashed their mouths together, kissing Bruce angrily, finally incensed beyond caution.  
  
“This isn’t sick. It’s not a fucking _disease_ ,” he bit out between rough breaths.  
  
He pressed their lips together again harshly. It was the only thing he could do that wasn’t getting up and finding whoever had instilled this kind of terror in Bruce and beat them into the ground until they were a stain on the pavement.  
  
Bruce’s mouth dropped open against his, and suddenly the kiss was more than just angrily defiant, suddenly it was _hot._ Clint’s fists were clenched at his side and Bruce’s cheeks were salty with dried tears. They were half-slumped against the kitchen cupboard. Clint grabbed the edge of the counter to balance himself and deepened the kiss, gasping wetly against Bruce’s mouth, who kissed him back with obvious shock.  
  
“I promise,” he said when they broke apart, pushing words out through the gravel in his throat. Bruce’s eyes were closed. He didn’t say anything.  
  
Dropping to his knees was the easiest thing Clint ever did. There was something about Bruce, a skittish kind of hurt mixed with steely resolve that made him want to give the man everything and anything he could ask for. Bruce locked his knees and thudded back against the wall as if in the same movement, the two of them sliding into this moment and out of the hurt with synchronized abandon.

He made short work of their trousers and sucked Bruce down determinedly, working just the tip first so he could see, so he could meet Bruce’s eyes and show him he liked it, liked being here like this. The world being what it was, it was not always easy to be shameless about this, but Clint had never managed to hate himself for this particular vice. It didn’t seem one with Bruce’s gaze lit on him, dark brown with an edge of wonder, hotly desiring, and Clint opened his throat and pushed down further.  
  
He didn’t close his eyes. His hair was in his eyes, strands spiking with sweat, so he tipped his head back so he could keep eye contact. Bruce’s hand clutched the back of his neck, clenching in time with the punchy, rough moans escaping his throat, and Clint hummed in pleasure, feeling so light and open, making a gift of himself like this. It was not generosity, quite, because there was pleasure in giving this, freely, without expectation of reciprocity; a promise like a hand reaching out in the dark. _I_ _am not alone and neither are you._ Bruce was holding onto him, fingers digging in tight, like it was the first time he’d heard something so preposterous, so claiming. Clint put one hand on the hand on his neck, covering Bruce’s desperate grasp, and slid the other up from Bruce’s hip to his chest, which stuttered up and down like his lungs couldn’t get enough air. Clint waited, looking up; he wanted to see what Bruce would do. If he’d take what Clint was offering.

Slowly, Bruce turned his face back towards Clint, the deep flush he’d tried to hide still spilling down his neck and chest, and his eyes found Clint. He couldn’t read the expression he found there, and, unsure what to anticipate, Clint took a deep breath through his nose to brace himself. After another tense moment, Bruce calmed a little, the heavy breaths rattling his chest slowing down, and his fingers slid into Clint’s hair, parting the damp strands. His other hand found Clint’s on his chest. He drew it away from his breastbone and tangled their fingers together, letting their joined hands come to rest against the counter at his hip. Clint watched them for a moment with quiet delight, marveling at the differences and similarities between their hands: both square with blunt fingers, the old tans that New York would never manage to fully eradicate, Clint’s messy nails, the weapons’ calluses, the little cuts and burns of lab accidents long past on Bruce’s knuckles, the way their thumbs crossed over each other in a mirror image, both holding fast and sure.  
  
He pulled off for a moment. “Bruce.”  
  
“Please,” Bruce said, eyes falling closed again, face tipping away again, like it was too much still, like it didn’t bear facing up to, but he wanted it anyway.  
  
Clint didn’t say anything further, just closed his eyes and finished it, giving whatever needed giving. It was nothing he minded handing over. He took care of himself too, slipped a hand down, panting harshly against Bruce’s hip with the taste of semen still in his mouth, and he came before Bruce had a chance to recover, before he could help or let go of his hand.  
  
At length, Clint picked himself off the floor and pulled up his trousers. “We should finish dinner.”  
  
“You didn’t have enough just now?” Bruce said, unexpectedly teasing, and surprised a laugh out of Clint.  
  
“That’s filthy,” he said, delighted. He picked up the sliced vegetables and threw them in a pan. “Eat. And then we’ll make battle plans.”

 

* * *

  
  
It took a few days for the plan to get set up, since they had to go through Steve. If they were going to put these blackmailers to a stop permanently, they’d need the law to play ball. The police wouldn’t be too keen to set up a sting based on the word of a couple of queers with criminal records, but a pristine criminal defense lawyer would be able to put a word in, even if he had a history of defending blacks and queers.  
  
Steve recommended Sam Wilson.  
  
“How do I know he’s on the level?” Clint asked. They couldn’t risk any mistakes. Not on this.  
  
Steve just smiled. “You’ll know.”  
  
When Steve took him to meet him at a diner in Brooklyn, he’d expected an obvious fairy, but instead they were greeted by a tall black man in a red-brown suit, and he knew what Steve had meant. Clint breathed a little easier. Sam was a detective on the force, and they outlined their plan for him, which was quite simple. Aside from blackmail, Shaw dealt in moonshine, cocaine, small arms, and occasionally, prostitutes. Kate and America lured out the gang by applying to one of Shaw’s side ventures, pretending to be society ladies looking to fizz up a party with a decent stock of snow. Shaw hadn’t been able to resist making some quick cash, and had agreed to deliver whatever they liked. While Shaw was off selling them cocaine, Clint would break into his safe to destroy the blackmail material. Steve would call the cops on Kate’s meeting with Shaw and Kate would skedaddle in the mayhem, or the cops could pull the sting themselves if they liked, Steve offered. Then Shaw went away for however many years a convicted drug lord went away.   
  
“There’s one problem,” Sam said, pressing his fingertips together over his roast beef. “I know Shaw. Hell, the whole department knows that cockroach. He’s got dirt on half the guys in Narco, and three in Vice. There’s no way you’ll get him processed. How do you think he’s stayed untouched this long?”  
  
Clint sighed. “He ain’t exactly subtle.”  
  
Sam pointed at him. “Exactly.”  
  
“So what can we do?” Steve asked.  
  
“Get me whatever Shaw’s got on the guys in Narco. I can arrest him in the bust, but I need that evidence within 24 hours, or he’s gonna walk. Once the guys are off the hook, I can get him booked. But won’t no one work against him unless they know Shaw’s lost his leverage.”  
  
“So I guess I’m not just destroying some evidence, huh?” Clint grumbled, pushing away the plate with his half-eaten sandwich. “I’m liberating the boys in blue’s dirty laundry?”  
  
“If you want to save your friend, yes.”

 

* * *

  
  
The morning of the day it would all happen, Clint watched himself brush his teeth in the bathroom mirror, trying to decide whether he should shave or not. He'd borrowed Bruce's toothbrush, but since he'd had Clint's dick in his mouth the night before he didn't think he'd mind. Clint rubbed at a red mark on his collarbone before spitting in the sink. The skin over his hips stung a little as he leaned against the porcelain.  
  
When he came out of the bathroom, he could see Bruce had woken up and Clint slid back into the bed on top of him.  
  
"Hey," he brushed a hand through Bruce's curls, pushing them off his forehead. His brown eyes looked very soft and sleepy.  
  
"Hey," Bruce whispered back, trailing a finger over Clint’s clean jaw.  
  
Clint pulled up a smile and kissed him. "Big day today. We’re going to get your life back."

 

* * *

  
  
“Thanks, Teddy.” Clint hung up the phone. The gang was on the move. He’d just had another call from Billy confirming the cops had kept their word and were en route to Kate and America’s drug sting. Clint tipped his hat and thanked the bartender for the use of the phone.  
  
He made his way down the block to the laundromat on 42nd Street, coming up behind the building the gang were using as their base of operations – an apartment building with storefronts and offices on the first two floors. He slunk past the attendant and went up the roof of the laundromat, took a running jump, and caught the balcony of the other building, hauling himself up with a practiced swing. The door was locked, but the mechanism wasn’t much of a challenge. He slipped inside quietly.  
  
The space was set up like an office, desks with stacks of paper and filing cupboards lining the wall. The hallway door he could see through the doorway advertised a no-doubt-fake export company. A radio was playing a commentary of the Dodgers’ game in another room, interrupted by muffled conversation whenever there was a lull in the broadcast. He’d have to be quiet.  
  
Clint went up to the office door, closing it soundlessly. Kate had, on multiple occasions, accused him of having made a career as a cat burglar before the war. While that wasn’t quite the truth, it wasn’t exactly far off either. He’d definitely built up the requisite skill set over the years.  
  
The sound of the radio died off as he closed the door, and he breathed a little easier.  
  
Now, if you were a criminal mastermind, where would you hide your ill-gotten blackmail photos? God, he hoped it wasn’t stashed in some PO box. Surely they weren’t organized enough to put their insurance policy with the police in a safe deposit box in a bank somewhere. It’s not like they’re the mob, he reminded himself. They were just a bunch of stupid crooks making a living off other people’s misery. The only reason they’d set their sights on someone as high-profile as Bruce had to be because they’d been hired.  
  
A safe, surely, made the most sense. Clint felt the precariousness of their plan on him like a physical weight. There were too many variables – if the photos weren’t here, if the cops didn’t arrest them, if they wouldn’t prosecute for the drug deal - but there hadn’t been time to feel things out more securely. There were only so many days they could stretch the ransom demand, and time was up. It was now or never.  
  
He checked under the desks for a safe, then behind the paintings, and struck gold on the third try, keeping one ear out for movement in the hallway as he put the other against the cold metal and turned the dial, and he could hear the tumblers inside the mechanism rattle and click just barely. Nat had taught him how to do it, one sticky-hot summer afternoon when memories of the war had been too close for both of them. They’d spent hours, first with a stethoscope and then without, and she’d even gone into how to place dynamite charges if you were in a hurry, like something straight out of one of those cowboy movies. Nat had blown railway lines outside Stalingrad in ‘42. Not like he had any dynamite now, though.  
  
The mechanism clicked, springing open with a welcoming little tap.  
  
He could tell immediately it wasn’t the right place. The safe was as good as empty, holding a thick brown ledger and a few stacks of money and small valuables, no envelopes, no stash of photographs or letters. He pulled out the ledger, skimming it quickly, leafing through to check nothing was tucked into the pages. Nothing was. Just endless list of deliveries and shipments, cash flows, records of deals and inventories by date. He flipped back three months, to when Bruce had been photographed.  
  
And they really must have someone inside the Department of Defense, ‘cause they’d waited the three months for Bruce to make his breakthrough, whatever it was. There was a list of payments. Clint felt sick to his stomach as he read it, every number a price people had been forced to pay not to have their lives shattered. It was vile.  
  
One payment was larger than the others. Much larger. Holy shit.  
  
_Banner_ $8000  
  
There was a little symbol next to it, a crude drawing of snakes coiling in a circle. That wasn’t some petty cash. Someone had spent serious money to try and get their hands on Bruce’s research.  
  
Clint didn’t know whether that made him feel better or worse about the whole thing.  
  
He shook himself. Time was a-wasting, and it didn’t really matter how he felt about it. The money had been sufficient to put Bruce’s life at risk, and maybe even the rest of the country.  
  
Clint threw the ledger down on a desk for the cops to find when they inevitably raided the place, and started prying open the desk drawers, then the filing cabinets. He wanted to burn the building down, just to be rid of it, hot rage boiling under his skin with every lock he broke that didn’t give him what he needed. He couldn’t burn the place down. There were people living upstairs.  
  
And there would be no way to be sure he’d destroyed the pictures.  
  
He slammed the last filing cabinet shut in frustration when it, too, came up empty. Then he realized what he’d done.

The glass in the office door shattered as it was kicked open, two rough-looking men – filthy clothes, unshaven, reeking of drink - barreling through the door.  Clint snatched a paperweight off the nearest desk, throwing it and hitting the first man hard in the shoulder, already spinning on one foot to deliver a vicious roundhouse kick to the second man’s head before the first one had even dropped entirely out of the way. The guy who’d been hit with the paperweight went down to the floor clutching his shoulder, howling in rage and pain, and kicked Clint’s legs out from under him. The second guy jumped on top of him, a heavy-set man with a beer belly and a wicked right hook, which he applied repeatedly to Clint’s ribs. Clint kicked and rolled, wiping blood out of his eyes from where the man’s broken nose had bled onto him. He kicked the guy away from himself, then in the kidney twice more for good measure so he’d stay down.  
  
Everything went black for a second as something connected hard across the breadth of his back, his lungs seizing up painfully. When he could see again, he saw the first man had gotten up and grabbed a cane from the umbrella stand near the door. He was only using one arm, the other hanging limply at his side, the shoulder dislocated or broken by the impact of the heavy stone paperweight, likely his collarbone too.  
  
Clint rolled out of the way of the second swing, catching the cane hard against his palms on the third one and grabbing on for dear life, yanking roughly until it slipped from the man’s hand and using it to swipe the man’s legs from under him. The man went down hard, landing on his injured shoulder with a scream. Something snapped, and Clint winced, sitting panting for a moment as his attackers groaned and wheezed on the floor.

 

* * *

  
  
“Photos! Letters! Incriminating pieces of jewelry! Pictures of the mayor in a tutu!” Clint yelled, gesturing wildly around the room. “Where’d you hide them? I’m not gonna ask again!”  
  
He’d hooked both of the goons to the radiator with a pair of handcuffs he’d found in a drawer. He’d thrown a few punches, but he wasn’t getting any answers.  
  
The slender one opened his mouth. “There’s-“  
  
“Shut up! Don’t tell him nothing, Reg, or I’ll beat your teeth out myself!” the other one roared, and Clint cracked the cane down hard on the radiator. He pointed at Beer Belly. “You, shut up.” He swivelled it to Reggie. “You, talk.”  
  
Reggie slumped limply against the radiator, pale and sweating with pain. He kept his mouth shut, the corners of his mouth turning white.  
  
But his eyes flicked down to the floor.  
  
It was just a blink, but when he met Clint’s eyes again, he saw that he’d seen, and his eyes went wide with terror.  
  
“Huh,” Clint said. He tapped the cane against the floorboards, listening…  
  
There!  
  
There was a small slit in the floorboards where they sounded hollow, just big enough to put a finger through, and he smoothly pulled up a board. The larger gap let him grab a second board, and it came out with two others attached, revealing a hole big enough to store a strongbox.  
  
He pulled it out. “Key?”  
  
Silence.  
  
Whatever. He picked up the paperweight and beat at the mechanism until it dented and broke, four swift strokes that rang loud in the room. The box was stacked with manila envelopes, neatly lettered with names and payment status.  
  
Clint turned to the two goons, giving Reggie’s outstretched foot a little kick. “This everything?”  
  
Reggie nodded furiously, face ashen.  
  
“Thanks,” Clint clapped his hands together. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you gentlemen. You know, apart from how it really wasn’t.” He punched out the loudmouth first. He felt sort of sorry for Reggie, who was already wilting, but it’d be better if there were no one to witness which envelopes he took, so he ….sort of apologetically pressed Reg's injured shoulder until the man passed out too.  
  
He pulled out the envelope lettered BRUCE BANNER first, shaking out the contents: pictures, negatives, a few sheaves of scribbled information, and a card with the symbol from before. He pocketed the card and put the rest aside, pulling all the envelopes with NYPD on them. He recognized a handful of names, but was glad for the immaculate filing system all the same. It’d be just like the cops to shaft him because he’d missed Willy from Accounting’s love letters to his mistress.  
  
The police files went into a bag. The others stayed in the strongbox. Many had familiar names on them, his neighbors from the Village, acquaintances from Natasha’s bar, even a few people he’d met at parties at Steve’s once, lawyers and nurses and community workers. Anyone who didn’t abide by the authorities' scaremongering and witch hunts had something to hide, and these…these roaches had profited like Wall Street prodigies. It was with a feeling of immense satisfaction that Clint lit a match, set it to the negatives from Bruce’s envelope, and threw them into the box. The celluloid caught with a _whoosh_ , the flame eating up the film almost faster than the eye could track. There were more negatives in the other envelopes, bursting into rapid flames as the burning paper touched them, the fire tearing its way through the box like a hungry animal that had been living inside it all along.

 

* * *

  
~~  
~~ The hair on Clint’s arms and neck stood up from the moment he stepped into the police station. He’d been dragged in more times than he could count in the years since he’d come back from Europe, and it never ended pretty. The desk sergeant hadn’t let him walk in, either; he’d called Sam’s desk before letting him go in, and Clint’d had to use Steve’s name before they’d even tell him where to go.  
  
The room fell quiet as it noticed him hovering in the doorway. Several men sneered openly at him, familiar foul expressions. Clint felt his fists tighten. He took a few deep breaths until color returned to his knuckles.  
  
“Detectives.” He tipped his hat in greeting.  
  
“What do you want,” one of the officers barked.  
  
“I have some information for Detective Wilson.”  
  
Several eyebrows were raised.  
  
Sam got up. “Let’s take a walk.”  
  
In the hallway, Clint passed Sam the bag with the blackmail envelopes. He couldn’t help but hesitate a moment before he let it go. There was enough dirt in there to get some peace in the Village, if he had a mind towards using it. Maybe even keep a bar open longer than a few months before the authorities closed them down again. Maybe enough to stop the beatings.  
  
Sam watched him linger over the decision, clearly aware of what was keeping him, but there was understanding in his gaze.  
  
“You’ll be happy to know Miss Bishop and Miss Chavez were released after questioning,” Sam said, to fill the silence, and Clint finally let the envelopes go. “Officers raided the office on 42nd an hour ago. Found some interesting stuff.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Looks like there’s some unusual people after your friend.” There was a slight emphasis on ‘friend’ that made Clint a little queasy with protectiveness, for all that Steve had vouched for Detective Wilson. He was still police.  
  
“Couple of men in black came and took away our suspects, all the evidence, the whole shebang. You ever heard of SSR?”  
  
“Can’t say I have.” Clint put his hands in his pockets, idly kicking a piece of broken pencil lying on the linoleum. “What’s it, some kind of special branch? FBI? CIA?”    
  
“They said they're scientists but. Well, let’s just say you won’t have to worry about Mr. Shaw again anytime soon.”

 

* * *

  
  
Clint answered Bruce’s wild-eyed, expectant look the moment he walked in the door. “It’s done.”  
  
Bruce put down the gun, sagging but not uncoiling his tense posture where he sat on the divan, facing the door. Clint didn’t want to think about who it was for. He winced as he pulled off his coat, hanging it up next to the door along with his hat. He wiped his bloody knuckles off on his dirty shirt since it was pretty much a goner already, and Bruce jumped up from the couch, letting out a soft noise of concern.   
  
“You’re hurt.”  
  
“Two of them put up a fight. I’m alright.” Clint tried to smile reassuringly. He felt his split lip reopen, so probably that didn’t work too well.   
  
“Come here.” Bruce grabbed his hand and dragged him over to the sink in the kitchen, running the tap and pushing Clint’s bloodied hand under the hot water. He bent down and pulled a first aid kit from the cabinet, rustling through it with one hand while the other kept Clint’s hand under the stream.   
  
“I burned the negatives.” Bruce’s eyes were on the first aid kit, not meeting his. “Shaw and his cronies are enjoying the hospitality of a nice cold prison cell. Sam’s got the dirt on the cops, so they shouldn’t be able to wriggle out. And they’ll know better than to open their mouths.”  
  
“This needs bandaging,” Bruce said, wiping at the burst skin over Clint’s knuckles and squeezed a stinging drop of disinfectant on each one. He carefully wrapped Clint’s hand with a roll of bandage from the first aid kit and pinned it neatly in place. Clint smiled for a moment, reminded of an old Greek vase he’d seen in a museum in Berlin near the end of the war, when they’d been at loose ends and he’d wandered the city, waiting for the news of the surrender in Berchtesgaden.   
  
He put his hand over Bruce’s. “Hey. It’s okay. They’re gone, pictures gone, and SSR’s looking into the people that hired those assholes.”  
  
That, finally, got Bruce to look up. “SSR?”   
  
Clint didn’t fall for it for a second. “Yeah, apparently this is way more than some corporate espionage, but I think you already knew that.”  
  
Bruce didn’t smile. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you what this is all about.”  
  
“I know, I know, classified.” Clint pulled his hand from Bruce’s grasp to wave dismissively. “I’m probably better off not knowing, right? Hey, you got any beer?” He turned towards the icebox, but Bruce grabbed his hand and pulled him back.   
  
“Thank you.” His voice was full of emotion, and Clint’s heart ached, seeing him still hold himself so tight, so still. Holding himself under that ironclad control. Clint could only imagine what he’d had to endure over the past few days, the effort it had taken. Bruce leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek, where a bruise was starting to smart. “And I’m sorry for all this.”  
  
Clint shrugged, softened. “’S what I do.”   
  
Bruce kissed his mouth gently. Sadly, Clint thought, and he felt Bruce’s grip finally going loose around his wrist, tension slipping out in measured breaths as they kissed.   
  
He pulled him towards the bed. 

 

* * *

  
  
Bruce came into the Tsar a little after six, looking harried and nervous, the shoulders of his coat stippled with rain. He took the seat next to Clint where he was leaning against the bar, two shots of vodka and a bottle of coke lined up.  
  
“Hey.” Clint looked him up and down; he was wearing a well-tailored tan suit and his curls had been disarranged by the rain. Clint pushed the briefcase with the fake lab documents that Sam had been kind enough to rescue from SSR’s evidence abduction and release to Clint towards Bruce with his foot. “What’s a nice feller like you doing in a dump like this? Ow!”  
  
“Don’t insult my bar,” said Natasha.  
  
Clint rubbed his shoulder. “Yeesh, touchy.”  
  
Bruce gave his usual slightly-worn smile at their antics, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.  
  
“So what now?” Clint asked, after they’d bumped gums about nothing for a while.  
  
Wrong move. Bruce hunched in on himself. “I’m really grateful for everything you’ve done for me…”  
  
Clint felt his stomach sink into his loafers. He knocked back his second shot. “But?”  
  
“My work- I can’t risk, again…,” Bruce trailed off, averting his eyes. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Clint twitched a shrug. Tried to smile. It didn’t feel like he succeeded. “Hey, I get it.”  
  
And he did. Bruce had a life, out there, outside the dives and bars of the Village. He was a DoD scientist, for god’s sake. His work was probably something straight out of a H.G. Wells novel, like to level another country. It’d been stupid to hope he’d want to stay down in the dumps with Clint.  
  
“Let me buy you another drink, at least,” Bruce said apologetically.  
  
“Nah, it’s alright.” Clint nodded at the briefcase. “You should probably take care of that thing. Wouldn’t want it to get mislaid, after all th' hassle.”  
  
“I guess I should.” Bruce finished his coke and stood, hesitating. Clint’s heart thunked harshly once in his chest. Bruce put his hat on. “I guess this is goodbye. Hey, if you ever need anything…”  
  
Clint forced a smile. “I’ll be sure to call.” The words were sour in his mouth.  
  
Bruce hesitated a moment, putting the money on the counter between them. “Thank you, again. I won’t forget what you did for me.”  
  
Finally, that dragged a genuine smile out of Clint. It was small and a little twisted, but there was a little coal of warmth in his stomach as he waved goodbye. “Take care, darlin’.”  
  
That little coal burned for a long time.  


* * *

  
  
EPILOGUE  
  
“I’m coming!” Clint yelled, catching his half-empty beer bottle as it tipped off the edge of the table and carelessly chucked it into the sink on his way to the door. “Jeez, hang on to your knickers-“  
  
Bruce was on his doorstep.  
  
Bruce Banner. Who he hadn’t seen in six months.  
  
“Hey,” Bruce said, ducking behind his curls. His hair was a little longer now, only reluctantly submitting to the pomade.  
  
Clint tried to pull his eyebrows down from where they were trying to crawl into his hairline. “Hey. “  
  
“New place,” Bruce said hesitantly, casting a comprehensive glace over Clint’s shoulder at the apartment.  
  
“Yeah.” Clint shrugged. It’s how it was in the Village. “Old landlady kicked me out. And the next one. Didn’t like the company I was keepin’.”  
  
Bruce quirked the hint of a smile. “And what company is that?”  
  
“Nat’s vodka, mostly,” Clint said, then realized that was a little too honest. He pulled up a smile, stiltedly spinning it into a joke. “And all kinds of unsavory characters, of course. Known deviants, communists, criminals, all shapes and colors…” He winked. “You should know, you’ve met them. So, what brings you to our neck of the woods? I’m sure you didn’t just come to see me.”  
  
Not after six months, he wasn’t. Clint’d held out some idle hope for the first month or two, but after that he’d resigned himself to Bruce’s escape back to his old life.  
  
Bruce flushed. Clint’s eyes widened.  
  
“I did, uh, actually. It took me a while, ‘cause of the-“  
  
“-the move.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Clint belatedly realized they were having this conversation in a flophouse hallway and dragged Bruce inside. “So, what’s up?”  
  
“Um,” Bruce said, staring at his feet, and Clint was reminded of the first time they’d spoken in his office. He hoped this conversation wouldn’t require as much coaxing, or tea. He was definitely out of tea --though that implied he’d had any to begin with, which was really not the case.  
  
Bruce rallied eventually. “I finished the project. I mean, I handed it off to the SSR. I mean, I quit my job.”  
  
“Bruce!” Clint felt like a grenade had landed in his foxhole. This couldn’t—he checked the table for the beer bottles – he must’ve had more than he thought—there were only three. He wasn’t even buzzed. Which meant Bruce had actually just said those words. Except- “What happened to ‘I need to be a scientist’?”  
  
“I got a new job.”  
  
Clint grabbed his abandoned beer and chugged it. This conversation was going to give him a headache. “You better get somewhere with this soon, Doc.”  
  
Bruce grabbed his arm, lowering the bottle. “It’s with Stark Industries. Right under Tony Stark.”  
  
 “Tony Stark,” Clint heard himself say. “As in, millionaire, playboy, three scandals a year, rumor mill up the wazoo, that Tony Stark?” It wasn’t just the vultures from _Confidential_ and _The Enquirer_ either. Clint knew the man from San Remo and the bars on MacDougal Street, had seen him around with a posse not even Cary Grant could’ve swept past the Hays Code.  
  
“The man’s also a scientific genius,” Bruce pointed out, a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. “But that’s the idea, yes.”  
  
Bruce gingerly put himself completely into Clint’s personal space and something hollow grew warm in the pit of Clint’s stomach. Hope unfolded in him like a knot coming untied.  
  
“And you wanna give this,” he tapped a knuckle against Bruce’s chest then his own, “a go?”  
  
“We’d still have to be careful,” Bruce cautioned.  
  
 “Naturally.” Clint smiled despite it all. It wasn’t a joke – believe him, he knew from careful – even living in the Village it wasn’t safe to be open. Hell, _Hollywood_ wasn’t safe in the current climate and they’d been the most accepting place in America for decades. Between the raids and the stings and the witch hunts, the danger wasn’t anything to scoff at.  
  
He slid his hand into Bruce’s. Bruce looked at it, his cheeks pinking up charmingly.  
  
“Really?” His voice was soft, hesitant with surprise. Like he couldn’t believe Clint would be willing to go for him after all this time.  
  
“Well, Tony Stark’s not like to give you a pink slip for the swing in your step, is he?”  
  
Bruce stepped closer, almost close enough for their noses to brush, and caught Clint’s other hand with his.  
  
“No, he is not.”  
  
Clint kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Chauncey, George. _Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Making of the Gay Male World, 1890-1940._ 1994.  
>  Faderman, Lilian, and Stuart Timmons. _Gay L.A.: A History of Sexual Outlaws, Power Politics, and Lipstick Lesbians._ 2006.  
>  Berube, Alan. _Coming Out Under Fire: A History of Gay Men and Women in World War Two._ 2004.
> 
> Oh, and the antique vase Clint thinks of is the [Berlin F 2278 vase](https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Akhilleus_Patroklos_Antikensammlung_Berlin_F2278.jpg) in the Antikenmuseen, which famously depicts Achilles binding Patroclus' wounds.


End file.
